by S. E. Smith
Pursing his lips, the youngster’s eyebrows screwed their concentration to his face. “That we must be able to identify Morris’ killer from his hands.”
“Or?”
Barker’s eyebrows screwed tighter. “Might mean, he wanted us to think that,” he said after a few moments.
“Well done Barker. A jolly well done!”
I tried not to glance at the swinging feet or the guts spilling out from the gash in Morris’ stomach, but it was difficult. It held the same fascination as one of the Lumière brothers’ picture shows.
“Morris didn’t expect the evening to turn out this way.”
“What makes you say that?” Like me, CC couldn’t stop looking at the body. From the way, his jaw rested at the slightly open position, he was fascinated by the level of violence on display.
“The table. There’s two mugs and a half-full jug from the local. Certainly, they did not ‘dine on mince, and slices of quince’.” Pleased with my Lewis Carroll reference, I glanced around the room. “Besides, there’s no signs of a struggle.”
“Drugged?”
“Possibly. If it was in gin, Morris might not have noticed. Juniper’s a pretty heavy perfume.”
CC noted my comment in his book and went on a hunt for a gin bottle. “When do you think he was killed?”
I took my bottle-top glasses from the Gladstone but waited until I was up close to the body before putting them on. “About thirty-five hours ago.”
CC, finding said bottle, indicated Barker should bag it.
“Agreed.”
Bottle safely stowed in a paper bag, Barker’s curiosity got the better of him. “How’d you know?”
With a smile, I removed my glasses and handed them to the young constable – just out of his teen years and still prone the occasional spot. “Put them on and observe the body carefully.”
Barker did as he was told – squinting at the intensity of the prescription, until his eyes accustomed themselves to the view.
“Tell the earl what you notice, laddie,” Lamb ordered.
“White stuff.”
“That’s fly eggs,” I told him. “If you examine the victim’s eyes – what’s left of them that is – you’ll see the eggs are starting to hatch.”
Dutifully the constable complied. His nose wrinkled slightly but I was impressed not only that he held his nerve, but that an almost steady voice asked: “What does that tell us?”
“The gestation cycle of the fly is quite precise. Twenty-four hours from laying to hatching. Now flies only appear during daylight, so for a full cycle to occur they laid their eggs yesterday morning.”
“And his downstairs neighbour said she saw him at the door at ten the previous evening. Oh, that’s clever, sir. I mean me lord.”
“No Barker, that’s deduction.” My toes danced at his praise, but I refused to give them their head. “Now we’re going to need a bucket.”
Straightening up and returning the glasses to me his face was full of confusion. “Why?”
“For the guts laddie.” Lamb intervened quickly before CC could bellow. “Take a shufti outside – there should be one. Though it might need emptying. And yes, my lord, before you ask. We took photos, so we’ll be able to move the body right away. “
“Excellent. Well when you have the bucket, we can get the body down. Anything else you want to show me, Lamb, while the lad’s on his quest?”
The worthy sergeant nodded. “Morris came into some money.”
I raised an eyebrow of curiosity.
“New bed linen. Good quality. Better than you'd think he'd have given the rest of the place.”
I whistled. “Really. You have the right of it, I’m sure. Is there a mattress sheet?”
Lamb turned to where Barker, like a gladiator of old, held his bucket aloft like a trophy. “Look lively laddie, get the mattress sheet. You can use that to transport the body, once you’ve got him down.”
The bucket and Barker’s face ... fell.
From Reports.
“It’s only me, miss.” The bedroom door opened and Niall clomped into the room. He seemed smaller than usual; his face bruised and cut, a shiner to his left eye keeping it half-closed.
“Did Nanny let you in?” Emily asked looking up from the book she was reading.
The big man nodded. “Boss sent me to apologise. And Nanny said I should ask if you wanted tea?”
Emily stared at him. “Wondered where you got the black eye from, Niall. Is he really angry?”
“His anger’s justified, miss. And I’m really sorry about yesterday. Took my eye off the game for a moment. Just glad it’s not worse.” He disappeared behind the door, reappearing a few moments later with a tea tray. Wordlessly, he pottered around pouring tea, tidying the already immaculate flat.
“You on your own?” Emily asked.
Niall shook his head. “Figg came with me. He’s sitting outside. Asked him if he wanted to come in, but he said he should keep a lookout, in case the assassin came back.”
Emily laughed. “Can’t see that happening, can you?”
Niall glanced around the room. “Nah, maybe not, miss. Not with you living in this fortress.” Niall poured more tea and eyed the last sandwich with envious eyes. “Miss, do you want it?” he asked in a soulful kind of way.
“No.” She returned to her reading. “Figg doesn’t like me, does he?” she said as she turned her page. “I mean he’s not rude or anything, and he does a wonderful job of looking after Uncle and keeping an eye on the accounts; and when I speak to the boys in Leeds – I can tell they want him back with them, which confirms he's really good at his job. But every so often I catch him staring at me ... as though he hates me.”
Niall winced; it might have been from the pain; it might not. “I don’t think he hates you, but he’s old-school. He’ll never hurt a hair on your head. None of us would, miss, but you got to admit, you’re unusual. A girl as high up as you are in the Impereye is rare. If not unheard of. I mean we're not the Forty Elephants.”
Emily smiled. “No, you're right, Bertha's all-girl gang is unusual.”
“Exactly, miss,” Niall nodded “It’s always been traditional in the Impereye for the apprentice to be a bloke. And ‘e probably thinks it should be Carmi, or Joseph or one of the others given they’re blood relatives and all.”
As if recalling his surroundings and to whom he was speaking, Niall flushed with embarrassment and changed the subject. “But he’s ever so cut up about the accident. Blames himself for not insisting on coming with me.”
“Aw. Bless him.” Emily glanced up from her book. “There’s more cake in the kitchen. Why don’t you persuade Imran to cut him some?”
Camden.
The moment everyone was focussed on the body, Sampson headed for the stairs. Byrd’s instructions were explicit. The diary was hidden in Millie’s room and it needed a tracker, not a plodder, to find it.
Shutting the door carefully, and only mildly irritated when it didn’t close properly, Sampson switched on the gas lights before undertaking a methodical search of the room. Nothing. Kneeling down, he rolled the small rug that served as a carpet by the bed and conducted a fingertip search of the floorboards. Nothing. Standing up, he scowled at the empty chamber pot before heading to the washbasin to unscrew the U-bend, even though common sense told him it was too small.
Irritation growing, Sampson opened the door, ready to measure the outside walls in case there was a concealed space when he noticed the chair. A hard wooden, uncomfortable thing, standing against the wall. The broken chair at Millie’s dressing table was too flimsy to be anything other than for show, but this one? This one you could use to stand on. And judging by the feminine heel marks, used by a woman.
Dragging the chair into the room used it to double-check the top of the wardrobe. He swore. Turned 360 degrees and stared. The wardrobe was directly opposite the door.
Sampson sucked in his breath.
The door!
It didn’t
hang right.
Either it had been put on by a drunken man, or … He dropped to his knees and looked the bottom. No that was level. He regarded the top. A definite slope.
Hand quickly touching his ever-present rosary beads, Sampson offered up a quick prayer before moving the chair to the door.
He hopped up, looked ... and there it was.
A small hollow – just big enough to take a book and just a little bit too small so the spine jutted upwards for ease of ingress and egress. Clever.
Mission accomplished, Sampson put the chair back on the landing and whistling, headed downstairs.
Constable Barker’s Report.
With the man’s innards in the slop bucket, Sergeant Lamb and meself began the difficult task of lowering Morris from his place of execution, as the earl put it, and into our jerry-built mattress bag, ready for its journey to the morgue. We had to cut him down. And carefully at that, because the earl wanted the knot intact. It weren’t easy. But eventually, and with much cussing and muted swearing, we got the job done. The chief thanked us; told us to go home, bathe and change; while the earl dropped to a crouch, to examine the landlord’s feet. I’m sorry to say, I didn’t go immediately. Which I reckon was a good thing, as I was there when they found it.
“Oh hell! Look at this CC.”
The boss needed no second bidding. Joining the earl, he stared at the bottom of the left foot, and even from where I stood at the door, hovering; I could see the colour drain from his face. “The prime minister’s not going to like it!”
“That’s for sure, cousin.” The earl retrieved a pair of tweezers from his nearby case and pulled out a cufflink from between the dead man’s toes. “But the question is this: is using a pawned House of Commons cufflink done because Gold is behind this and the marks on the man’s foot merely part of that calling card? Or does the connection to the House really exist?”
Even though I was trying to be as quiet as a mouse, I must have made some noise, coz CC caught me staring. “You not left yet, Constable?” he growled.
I didn’t wait for the following explosion. I just smiled at the earl and ran.
From the Casebook of Symington, Earl Byrd. Mayfair.
Mid-afternoon, we returned to my flat to find Emily lying on the sofa wearing a dressing gown embroidered with white daisies. The voluminous, Chinese silk outfit, gave her a fragile almost waiflike appearance.
“Should you be up?” I asked as I handed my coat to Sampson. “You look like hell!”
Emily snorted her disagreement, but it was lost in Nanny’s bustle.
“That’s what I said, milord. But Emily’s in one of her moods. Said she wasn’t prepared to loll in bed. So here she is.” Nanny sighed. “Now you’re here, perhaps you two could play chess? I’ve already lost three games, and don’t fancy another drubbing.” She glanced towards the door to the servants’ quarters, from where you could hear the low murmur of voices. “Besides, Niall’s in the kitchen and no doubt on hearing the door go, he’s put the kettle on and interfering with Mr Imran’s ways. I better go and keep the peace.” And with that, the old lady stood, straightened her shawls – gave a bit of advice in Yiddish (that I’m pretty sure translated into ‘behave yourself’) and was off.
“Chess?” I asked as I settled into the chair Nanny vacated.
Emily waited until Nanny was safely out of the way before laughing gently. “Uncle insisted I learned and got Uncle Robert to teach me.” This time her laugh was throaty and fulsome. “It’s not my favourite game, I prefer poker. He taught me that too. But it does focus the mind.”
I decided I wouldn’t rise to the bait regarding poker. That could be a conversation for another day. “It does indeed,” I replied lightly. “Care to pit your wits against me?”
Her riposte lacked humour. “Only if you’re prepared to lose, Sym.”
Letter from Symington, Earl Byrd,
Wednesday, 21st November.
McGregor,
I appreciate you probably thought you’d never hear from me again, but I am not convinced that the Camden police surgeon – a chap by the name of Alsopp – is the best bod for the job. He ruled murder – a foregone conclusion, as you will see from his report – and having done so, sees little reason to divine the order of the injuries, and how many are pre-mortem.
Consequently, should you be so inclined, my driver, Watkins, will collect you from Victoria on the 23rd and drive you to Camden. He has a few errands to run on my behalf, but should you be finished before he returns, please wait for him at the Royal Oak. It is a decent establishment. Make yourself known to mine host. He is an old comrade of my chef and will ensure you are looked after.
I’ve called a case conference later that evening. When you’re ready, Watkins will deliver you to us. I’m confident your findings’ll give much food for thought.
From the Casebook of Symington, Earl Byrd,
Friday, 23rd November,
“Please follow me, Doctor McGregor. The earl apologises for not greeting you, he’s in the bedroom with Miss Emily.” Sampson stated as he ushered a grim-faced surgeon down the hallway.
“If my being here is inconvenient ...” I didn’t need to see the man’s face to know he’d blushed.
Immediately, Sampson came to his rescue. “I should explain better, sir. The young lady was shot a couple of weeks ago and is confined to barracks so to speak, so we’re holding the conference in the bedroom.”
“Oh. I see.” You could tell from the tone that McGregor’s response was polite rather than truthful. No doubt he understood the concept of a girl being shot. He was a medico after all, but the open acknowledgement, by a servant no less, that there was a woman in his employer’s bedroom shocked him beyond propriety.
Judging by our last encounter, from the sober cut of his clothes and his constant clock-watching, the good doctor’s life was humdrum – regimented. By accepting my invitation to further his knowledge of my world, McGregor must realise his views were about to change.
“Miss Emily?”
“Difficult to explain, sir,” Sampson intoned blandly.
As McGregor told me many years later, his moral compass wavered still further on entering the bedroom and he nearly turned tail and ran. Of course, when I pushed him for the reason for this reaction, the worthy doctor merely sent me the relevant diary extract.
“In the centre of the bed, an exceptionally pretty young lady in her twenties, bandaged and pale. Laying nonchalantly next to her, with his arm around her shoulders – clearly at ease and relishing the moment – an older man of indeterminate age. Powerful and commanding; there was something about him that frightened me; for all that he appeared to be an affable gent.”
Seeing the good doctor hang back, I rose from my chair to greet him. “Excellent, you’re here. Let me introduce you to our motley crew, our speckled band.” I think I shocked him still further by performing these introductions in the order the people sat around the room, not with regard to social rank. Though I deliberately chose a route that would leave the pawnbroker and Emily till last.
“Thank you, Doctor McGregor,” Gold said after the introductions were complete. “Thank you for taking my Emily’s concerns seriously.”
The penny dropped.
In that moment, McGregor realised why Sampson found explaining “Miss Emily” so complicated. It was obvious he had potentially indelicate questions to ask, but now was not the time. And before he could do more than express his condolences, I called the meeting to order forcing McGregor to sit down hurriedly between a black-jawed Jethro and the more heavily injured Niall.
“Doctor. As your report is central to our meeting this evening, can I ask you to go first?” I asked once everyone was settled.
For a moment, I wondered why the good doctor was so reluctant to speak, until I saw him direct a frown at Emily.
It seemed she saw him too. “Please don’t let my weak and feeble body fool you, doctor,” she told him with a smile. “I have a heart and stomach to
rival the Queen of England herself.”
Gold snorted as if at some private joke, but at McGregor’s growl, plastered a suitably benign expression to his face.
“If you are sure, Miss Davies? My report’s not pleasant.”
“Murder never is, and my name is Emily.”
And taking this as permission to begin, McGregor took out his notebook and addressed the room.
“It took a while to work it out. But once you realise the landlord was tortured then killed; it begins to make sense.” McGregor paused and consulted the notebook. “There are signs on his fists that he put up a bit of a fight. But it wasn’t sustained. His nails weren’t pretty but not from being shredded, like you see when someone’s defending himself. Morris bit them. More importantly, though, there were two distinct marks around the neck. The one made by the rope, and something beneath that.” He shut the notebook. “My gut feeling is a garrotte of some kind.”
Gold sat up straight. His eyes became slits of anger. “What did you see?” the old man demanded.
“I found the imprint of a knot on the side of the neck.”
“Careless,” Gold muttered. “A student, not a master.”
“Explain.” CC didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. It broke the silence and caused all heads to turn.
“With pleasure. Emily will no doubt correct me, but to my knowledge, there are four men in Britain who ply their trade with a garrotte as their weapon of choice. They are masters of the wire and wouldn’t be so careless as to leave any kind of trace.”
Gold glanced at Emily, who nodded her agreement.
“Except it wasn’t wire, Mr Gold. It was material. I found strands of cotton in the wounds in the neck. Smith missed them.” McGregor’s shake of his head acted as an apology for his whole profession.
Gold glanced at Nanny. They conversed quickly, in what I took to be Russian and, from the heat in the words, the pair were extremely agitated.
“Sounds like a rumal, Mr Gold,” Figg said from the shadows. “If you remember, when I first came down from Leeds, Miss Emily said I needed to use something more refined than my fists, so Jethro taught me to use one.”
